Line of Sight

(1)
“This one!” the live skeleton calls out with crackling voice to the well-fed American soldier whose full frame dwarfs almost all the other men standing atop the soft spring rain soaked mud within wood and barbed wire fences.


I should have killed you when I had the chance you fucking maggot!


“No, it’s a mistake, I am a prisoner!” I shout before the skeleton’s right fist smashes against the back of my skull, knocking me forward.


Bringing my arms up to cover my head, I hear the American “You’re too fat to be a prisoner.”
“He’s a guard, just like the other one!” another frame in soiled striped pajamas offers in a broken Hungarian tinged accent.


“I’m not a guard, I worked in the dispensary!” I claim from a crouched position, holding the back of my head with both hands as a warm liquid begins covering my palms.


“Guard, Guard, he was a Guard!” skeleton barks, as he picks up a shovel from the ground.


Fucking Dog, shut your mouth!


Imploringly, I look up at the American soldier. His rifle is slung over his right shoulder; sidearm latched at his hip. My eyes meet his for a moment.


“I going for a walk.” He says as he steps toward one of the flea infested wood frame barracks.


“No, don’t leave me here! Don’t leave me with them!” I scream, fully reaching a higher octave than I’ve been capable of since I was a small boy.


The Hungarian’s heal crashes into my sternum, sending me tumbling on my back.


How can such a remnant of a man have such power in his kick?


Mud envelops my blood stained hands as I try to lift my torso off the ground. I look for the American, but he’s now a meter away. Turning back to the first skeleton, I can see rage and hatred in his eyes.


It’s over now, you don’t need to hate me.


“It’s over, I can help you.” I offer in a soft, humble tone.


He clenches the shovel in his right hand. His bony knuckles extend so far inside the stretched skin that the white of his bones is clearly visible.


Quickly turning toward the Hungarian, I cry “Please, Help Me, please, . . . please.!”


His eyes regard me for a moment, then pass toward the skeleton, who is lifting the shovel with his right arm.


Damn them!


I turn back to the skeleton, my eyes catching his.


You are not worthy to kill me!


His arm holding the shovel dangles its blade over my head for a split second.


You can’t kill me!


He brings down the shovel with the full force his meager body can deliver.


(2)
“This one!” I call out with crackling voice to the well-fed American soldier whose full frame dwarfs my emaciated body barely staying upright atop the soft spring rain soaked mud of the camp where I’ve managed to survive the past two years.


This bastard is trying to pass himself off as a prisoner. Doesn’t he realize he stands out like a wolf among sheep? I’ll show him sheep!


“No, it’s a mistake, I am a prisoner!” Haisler shouts before I smash my stretched skin covered right fist against the back of his skull, knocking him forward.


He raises his arms, attempting to protect his head as the American says “You’re too fat to be a prisoner.”


Yes, it’s so blatant!


“He’s a guard, just like the other one!” Leon screeches in a broken Hungarian tinged accent.

“I’m not a guard, I worked in the dispensary!”  Haisler pleads from a crouched position, holding the back of his head with both hands as blood begins covering his palms.


“Guard, Guard, he was a Guard!” I bark as I bend to retrieve a shovel from off the ground.
I’ll show you what sheep can do!


Imploringly, Haisler looks up at the American soldier. Their eyes meet for a moment before the American announces “I going for a walk.”

The soldier steps toward one of the flea infested wood frame barracks, back turned away from me, Haisler and Leon.


“No, don’t leave me here! Don’t leave me with them!” Haisler screams in such a high pitched schrill it hurts my ears.


Leon’s heal crashes into Haisler’s sternum, sending him tumbling on his back.


You’re not so strong now, are you “Guard!”


From in the mud, Haisler attempts to life his torso off the ground. At first he is turned toward the American.


No one can help you now.


The soldier is over a meter away, not looking at our little party. Then Haisler turns back toward me with fear in his eyes.


YOU will get what YOU deserve!


“It’s over, I can help you.” Haisler mumbles in a pleading tone.


YES, IT’S OVER NOW, YOU MONSTER!


I clench the shovel in my right hand so tight my knuckles extend so far inside my stretched skin that the white of my bones is clearly visible.


Haisler implores Leon “Please, Help Me, please, . . . please.!”


Leon looks at Haisler, then at me.  Our eyes meet as I use all of my strength to lift the shovel above my head.


I am Karma!


Haisler’s eyes lock with mine as I stand over him, shovel raised high.


You deserve so much worse than this!


With every ounce of energy I possess, I bring the shovel crashing down upon his head.


You deserve so much more than this!


(3)
“This one!” the live skeleton calls out with crackling voice as I walk with him across a patch of grass topped mud between two dilapidated block houses in a filthy camp  that smells of human flesh.


This place makes me sick!


“No, it’s a mistake, I am a prisoner!” the clearly well-fed man shouts before the skeleton strikes him in the back of the head.


How many of these guards are going to try to pass themselves off as prisoners?


“You’re too fat to be a prisoner.”  I announce in an exasperated tone.


I just want to get out of here!


“He’s a guard, just like the other one!” another frame in soiled striped pajamas offers in a broken Hungarian tinged accent.


“I’m not a guard, I worked in the dispensary!” the well-fed man pleads from a crouched position, holding the back of his head with both hands as blood begins to cover his palms.


“Guard, Guard, he was a Guard!” skeleton barks, as he picks up a shovel from the ground.
I can’t stand this. 


Desperately looking up at me, the well-fed man in striped pajamas catches my eyes. 
I don’t want any part of this.


“I going for a walk.” I call out, turning my back on the whole group. I take a few steps away toward one of the flea infested wood frame barracks.


“No, don’t leave me here! Don’t leave me with them!” the well-fed man screams in a high shrill.


Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, Coming Fore To Carry Me Home.


Although I try to block out the sound, I hear the well-fed man crash to the ground.


Coming Fore To Carry Me Home. Swing Low.


The well-fed man mumbles something I don’t catch, nor have the will to translate from German.


Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, Coming Fore To Carry Me Home.


“Please, Help Me, please, . . . please.!” The well-fed man calls out.


How could they do this?


Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, Coming Fore To Carry Me Home.


A loud thud echos from behind me, the sound of metal hitting bone.


How could they do this?


"Sweet Chariot, Come Fore To Carry Me Home. . . Please!" I say under my breath.

 

 

 

Upon entering Dachau concentration camp, American soldiers were shocked and mortified by what they found. Piles of skeletons, burnt corpses, and inhuman looking men wasted away to nothing barely able to talk or stand.  They also found some men who looked very well fed, in similar striped pajamas to the starved men around them.  The prisoners pointed these men out as guards who could not escape.  They had been attempting to deceive the Americans into believing that they were also prisoners.  Some of these guards had been so cruel to the prisoners in the past that there are cases of soldiers turning a blind eye from quick retribution.